Thorn's Keep
by Calcifersgrl
Summary: This is Sleeping Beauty that rather focuses on the thorns that wall her from the princes. Especially the wrong princes. Please read and review!!


Thorn's Keep  
By Calcifersgrl  
  
  
Author's Note: I've been wanting to write a Sleeping Beauty story for ages now.  
I wrote this in a day. It really took me by a storm, just came right out of my head. I really like it, and I hope you like it too. Please, please, please read and review it. Tell me what you think. = )  
  
  
  
The thorns encircled her, held her, embraced her. Thorns on rosebuds, growing up the vine, razor sharp edges pointed upward towards the sun. Thorns that cut and drew blood of the many who tried to take her away. They did not harm her in the least. She was their child, theirs to guard and hold for eternity. On their vines, they bent or stretched to peer at the sleeping girl on the floor of the keep. She had lain there for long, though how long the thorns did not know. She was beautiful, as beautiful as their roses that bloomed once a year. She had long black hair strewn out like a wave behind her, black eyes that did not open, and rose red lips. They kept watch over her, their prize, their human child; and the sound of her breathing gently lulled them to sleep each night. The thorns didn't have to worry about consistent vigilance. Even if a foolish man were to try to take her from them, he could never succeed. His life would surely bleed out on their thorns before they even woke to attack. Secure in that knowledge, they drifted off into sleep, knowing that the next day their roses would bloom.  
  
The first rays of sunlight shone on them, and the cold rosebuds felt the sudden warming. Their growth sped up, and the petals unfurled farther and farther until the sweet scent of roses covered the keep. Even the girl, enchanted in sleep, shifted from the scent and sighed.   
  
The rose perfume rode the wind and traveled to the nose of a man on a horse at high noon. He was a rather regal-looking young prince with all the arrogance expected of one so young. He wore a fine navy doublet with diamond cuffs, and a velvet hat with one maroon plume sticking out in the back. He had short black hair jutting out beneath the hat, and little drops of glistening perspiration rolled down his temples. The sun was out, and it would be long before the humidity cooled. He lifted a callused hand to wipe the drops, pausing to sniff the air.  
  
Roses, he thought. He observed the landscape before him. "They are surely no roses here," he mused aloud, one hand on the rein, and the other shading his forehead while he looked into the distance.  
  
"Usually there aren't," said a creaky voice from behind him. An old man hobbled toward him, a cane in hand. He was a disgusting object, and the young man noted all: teeth that had rotted long ago, breath that made one keel over, three strands of hair left on his poxed head, wrinkles so deep that his whole face had sunken in, and bones so thin, one shove could break them all.  
  
"Would you care to elaborate?" inquired the prince, keeping a safe distance away from the old man's mouth.   
  
The old man leaned on his cane, lifted his nose into the air, and sniffed. "Yup," he said happily. "That's them roses. Course you fellow should consider yourself lucky. It happens that them roses only bloom once a year - right about this time when the day becomes the hottest."  
  
"Isn't that unusual?" interjected the young man. "Is there a story around these roses - by golly, roses that bloom once a year must be at least enchanted."  
  
"I reckon so," said the old man, looking casually at the horse, who turned its head away in disgust. "That's where the sleeping girl is at least. She's been lying there for a hundred years I suppose. Said to have been cursed by an evil fairy at her christening, and then on the night of her eighteenth birthday, she fell into eternal slumber . . ."  
  
But the prince had ceased to listen. The moment that he heard the words 'the sleeping girl" his ear had stopped taking in the words. At last, he thought, his heart widening with joy. I find Sleeping Beauty. He had first heard of her when he had entered the strange country when he had sought shelter with an elderly couple who had happened to be wonderful storytellers. A princess with beauty unsurpassed by any other. A princess under a terrible spell. A sleeping beauty that only needed a kiss to be awakened. At that very moment, he had made up his mind to break her spell. After all, he thought, how hard is it to kiss a girl?  
  
The old man was still talking about the fairies, when the prince swung down from his horse and grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him quite rudely. "Where can I find these roses, the castle, this girl?" he demanded.  
  
"Oh - uh - I," stammered the man. He was at a loss for words; he fumbled for the directions. Thankfully, words were not needed, and he stretched out his right arm, extending the index finger to the east. He watched as the young man leapt heroically onto his bay and raced off in that direction. The young man had not stopped to utter his thanks, nor to hear out the rest of the story. Which told how many young men had already tried and failed, dying in the flailing briars. And how even though the roses bloomed today, the thorns were still harmful, and the young man would surely die as the others before him had. Oh well, thought the old man sadly. The prince (he must have been for the old man could tell by the blazing heroic look in his brown eyes) would see the dangers soon enough. He might choose to avoid the hazard and leave.  
  
But the old man knew how stubborn young princes were, especially when placed in dangerous situations. They chose to 'laugh in the face of danger' instead of reasonably walking away, and then they were killed because of their senselessness. Poor fool, regarded the old man. I will weep for you. And as he hobbled away, his cane in hand, he wondered: How many knew what this impetuous prince intended on doing, and how many would weep for the death of such arrogance?  
  
The prince came upon the keep, settled among the moss and dirt, with deadly brambles growing all over the walls and in the area around. The roses were gorgeous, each unfurled to their prettiest point. All of them were red, red for love and beauty. And as he feet stepped forward, one, two, three steps, the sound of his approaching footsteps rocked the earth that held the roots of the thorns.   
  
  
_Someone's coming_, cried the thorns shrilly, and the swishing movement of the awakening thorns were heard by the advancing prince. _He's come to take her from us._  
  
_We won't let him_, said one briar consoling the hysterical ones. The vines began conversing with each other, each bending down in apprehension to watch the strutting man who came nearer and nearer, clutching the hilt of his gleaming sword.   
  
_Our roses have bloomed. There is a chance he may take her!_  
  
_We will not part for him; we have never parted for humankind._  
  
_He has a sword; it is drawn; oh, the agony. He is felling us like thin trees._  
  
_Take hold of his leg, grab it and entwine your vine around and drag him under!_  
  
  
The prince looked down in time to see a vine encompass his leg; he savagely chopped at it before it caught hold of him. The briars were alive, moving in to whip their spikes across his face and body. They would lash back and forth until his strength bled from his body, and then they would leave him alone, to die by himself. This will never be, he thought to himself, as he furiously whipped his sword round at all angles, cutting the vines down one by one, splashing himself with their sticky green blood.  
  
  
_We are dying_ , whimpered a weak call to the higher vines. _We cannot hold our ground while our roses bloom. They must give him a certain immunity that helps him dodge our thorns. Sisters. Brothers. We must let him through, stop the attack. Let him take her. Otherwise we shall die._  
  
_She is our child. She is ours to protect. Haven't we guarded her, kept her safe for all these years? She is ours and he must not take her. He is unrighteous and undeserving. She is our sun!_  
Another voice intercepted into the chorus of whimpering thorns. _We must deceive this daring prince. Let us stand aside and let him pass into the hall of our princess. We shall take him then, through the window when he least expects it_  
  
Another voice disagreed. _Why even let this man into the keep? We shall deceive him by standing still and not harming him. He will think the danger has passed and bolt for the door. When he takes time to open the door we shall strike and drag him down into our beds to die with the dead._  
  
_He will be suspicious_ warned a voice.  
  
_What if this fails? Then he shall take the most precious rose from this place. And we shall lay down and wake no more. She is the heart of this keep. We were planted here to protect her, to hold her in sleep!_  
  
_Let us see whether this is a brave foolish prince or a brave wise prince_ interrupted an ancient wise voice. It belonged to the oldest vine with the largest red roses and the thickest thorns. _Either way, we are ready for him. If he is foolish, we may strike him down at the door. If he is less foolish, we will take him before he disturbs our child's sleep._  
  
  
The foolhardy prince heard none of this conversation, just the angry rustling of the vines and their leaves. A rose petal fell and dropped on his sword, and he took a moment to look at it. In that hesitation, the vines shot from their straight lines and thrust their thorns at his way. He may not have been blessed with the humbleness needed in good princes, but he was quick with his sword. He tumbled out of the way, and slashed and chopped with his sword until his muscles ached and burned as if they had been lit on fire. He stumbled backward, sword ready with a determined look pasted on his face, hacked and mutilated the long tentacles, until he backed into the wooden door. With a movement quick as a flash of lightening, he opened it and was safe. Out of the reach of the furious tempest of thorns.   
  
He ran up the rickety wooden stairs that led to the topmost tower. The only thought that flashed in his mind was that of the sleeping princess. He was so exhausted from his triumph over the brambles, but the thought of his prize washed away all the fatigue. He was quite a sight. His hat and plume were lost in the thorns outside. Chunks of cloth had been ripped away from his tunic, and his body was covered with bloody scratches. He did care, quite dreadfully, that he didn't look as handsome as he usually did. He would have loved to have a luxurious bath and time to practice his charm before approaching the girl, but the princess would feel grateful enough to have escaped from her endless sleep. He finished the long walk up the spiral steps and opened the door to the only room up there.  
  
The sight that beheld him took away his breath. The girl lay crumpled on the wooden floor, her black hair streaming out behind her like a waterfall of black ink. Her dress of deep burgundy contrasted her face, pale from decades of being out of the sun's influence. As he entered the room and slowly circled about her like a predator eyeing its prey, he heard it.  
  
It sounded like crying; words, mingled with tears. Words, pleading, begging, so pitiful that it almost made him laugh. Who was saying these words? He turned around and the laughter died in his throat.  
  
  
_No,_ they wept. _She is ours. Ours - our child, our heart. She is not yours for the taking. Leave us our undying rose! Do not take her. Without her we will die. Without her, this place will die. She is ours. She is ours. You mustn't take her. Our child, our soul, our daughter._   
  
They were waiting right outside the rectangular window, watching the prince encircle their beloved like a hawk. The thorns wailed and implored and murmured again and again, making their rustling more than rustling. They were words straight from their roots ten feet under the ground. They were words spoken by vines, and yet, spoken so heartfelt that the prince heard the beseeching voices. True, he could not entirely comprehend the speech, but that did not matter as long as he heard.  
  
And in that moment when he turned to face the window in his moment of glory, the thorns shrieked for joy as their time of triumph came to pass. They were too quick for him, wrapping their vines like cruel tentacles round his body, and towing him down into the murderous thorns that lay below waiting for a flesh body to dig their spikes into. And as they bore him down, the sun sank below the hills, and the rose petals gently fell from their stems, floating to cover the brambles with their sweet perfume.   
  
  
_She is asleep_, whispered the thorns to one another. They all gazed at her while moonlight highlighted their green vines. _We will have to let her go someday. One day a righteous prince will come for her, and we shall have to let him pass. We must part for him, but only if his heart is true. And she will leave us and this keep to join the living and take her place in a kingdom to rule as queen._  
  
The briars all sighed, just vines and thorns for the roses had withered and died.   
  
_Will she remember us?_ asked a sleepy voice.  
  
_Of course she will._  
  
  
The Sleeping Beauty slept on; the quiet in and out of her breathing was the only sound heard throughout the still night. She dreamed while she slumbered. She dreamed of a future prince and of shining thorns. Thorns that encircled her, held her, embraced her. Thorns on rosebuds, growing up the vine, razor sharp edges pointed upward towards the sun. Thorns that cut and drew blood of the many undeserving princes who tried to take her away. They did not harm her in the least for she was their child, theirs to guard and hold until the right prince came. Someday.   
  



End file.
